


Too Much Love Will Kill You

by TheGameIsOn_Geronimo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, As usual they're idiots, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angels, Hurt/Comfort, I swear it is vaguely happy at the end, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Very very brief mention of self-harm and suicide so be careful guys, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 17:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGameIsOn_Geronimo/pseuds/TheGameIsOn_Geronimo
Summary: Aziraphale falls.





	Too Much Love Will Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back again with more angst after this idea popped into my head randomly... sorry.  
Title comes from the Queen song (as with many Good Omens fics), and also I don't own any of these characters.  
I also realised I have to thank the three friends (You know who you are) I send my fics to before publishing them - your feedback and comments are invaluable and thank you so much for putting up with so much angst... I promise I'll try and write some fluff soon.  
Any mistakes are my own and feel free to point them out to me :)  
Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading! :)

**‘Too much love will kill you,**

**If you can’t make up your mind.**

**Torn between the lover,**

**And the love you leave behind.**

**You’re headed for disaster,**

**‘Cause you never read the signs **

**Too much love will kill you,**

**Every time.’ – Too Much Love Will Kill You, _Queen_**

** *****

After the apocalypse is diverted it starts slowly. Looking back, Aziraphale is shocked that firstly, he doesn’t notice sooner, and secondly that it isn’t quicker. After all, there aren’t many things he can think of that overshadow the disobedience of trying to avoid the ineffable plan. It doesn’t matter now though, it’s too late for him.

***

It’s Crowley who first notices anything vaguely amiss. They’re lounging in the backroom of the bookshop, an expensive vintage wine open on the coffee table, and their wings displayed to the world in an effort to feel slightly more comfortable in the oppressive humidity creeping in under the door from the London streets. Aziraphale is lounging on his trusty armchair, quietly fiddling with his glass and fuzzily daydreaming about all of the books he could read tomorrow, when Crowley reaches out and strokes his wings. His body gives an involuntary shudder at the sensation, and he glances over to see Crowley frowning at his white feathers as he runs his fingers down them again.

‘Crowley?’ he questions slowly. They’re not usually so tactile with their wings. It’s an intimate thing. But then again, they’re both quite drunk.

‘Hmmm.’ Crowley responds lazily, fingers straightening out the small kinks in the primary feathers, and then running through the fluffy coverts higher up. Aziraphale shudders again.

‘What are you doing, my dear?’ he asks more directly when no answer is obviously forthcoming.

Crowley’s gaze shifts to look at him, serpent pupils slightly bleary from the alcohol, and then looks back at Aziraphale’s wings. A frown creases his face as his hand moves away from the feathers and just hovers over them.

‘Have you been down any chimneys lately, angel?’ he asks casually, and Aziraphale splutters on his drink in surprise.

‘What?! No!’ he exclaims indignantly, feathers fluffing up, ‘That was one time and you know it!’

Crowley grins lazily, but his eyes are still roving over the white feathers, and he says, ‘Your wings are dusty then.’

‘What?’ Aziraphale questions again, craning his neck and pulling his wings in towards his body to get a better look.

Crowley gestures vaguely at them, ‘They’re kind of speckled,’ he explains, like that explains anything. Which it doesn’t – his wings are white and always have been. Solid, glowing white.

And yet when he squints at the feathers he can see easily, he realises that Crowley is absolutely right. The white is marred by tiny grey-black speckles, seemingly randomly. They’re tiny, and only noticeable if you look very closely, but they’re still there. Hesitantly, he runs a finger over one. It doesn’t come off, and it doesn’t feel any different. Something heavy settles in his gut, and he swallows, before returning to his glass of wine and trying not to think about what it could mean.

After that evening, he doesn’t display his wings again around Crowley, and he definitely doesn’t tell him that the speckles have grown and merged. They look like splashes of jet black ink on a pristine canvas. They make Aziraphale feel sick.

***

The next thing he notices is how inexplicitly tired he becomes. In six thousand years of existence he’s never seen the point of sleep, not like how Crowley adapted to it like a duck to water. He has things to do with his time, why would he want to spend hours of the day lying around being unconscious?

So, when days after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t he starts feeling heavy and slow and lethargic, he valiantly tries to ignore it, because he doesn’t want to think too closely about what the fact that he is feeling sleepy actually means.

It works for about a day, until he feels like he might actually pass out, which is when he drags himself up the stairs to the barely-used rooms above the bookshop. He miracles the thick layer of dust off the duvet, and hauls the piles of books onto the floor, before lying down on his back.

He lies there stiffly for a few moments, not really sure what to do with his hands, and awkwardly fiddles with the blankets below him. It’s too quiet. The air is too still. Gingerly, worried that he might do something wrong, he rolls onto his side, and pulls his knees up, so he’s curled into a more comfortable position. One hand finds its way under his head, and the other is held close to his chest. He closes his eyes, and tries to breathe deeply. Within minutes, he’s asleep.

He’s woken up rather abruptly due to crashing noises coming from downstairs. He stumbles to his feet and unsteadily makes his way down the stairs, peering out onto the shop floor to figure out if he’s being burgled. What he sees is a very frantic demon knocking over piles of books as though they’re tall enough for Aziraphale to be hidden behind them, while calling ‘Aziraphale?’.

Aziraphale blinks a few times, feeling quite sluggish after such a rude awakening, clears his throat and then speaks up, ‘Um, my dear?’

Crowley whips around, amber eyes landing on him in the stairway and narrowing angrily.

‘Angel!’ he yells, stalking forwards, and then wrapping a surprised Aziraphale in his arms and burying his head in his neck. ‘I couldn’t find you. I thought - ’ and his voice breaks slightly.

Aziraphale pats his back hesitantly, ‘There, there, my dear,’ he comforts quietly, ‘I’m right here.’

Crowley sniffs slightly, then pulls back and finally actually looks at Aziraphale’s drowsy eyes, and mussed hair.

‘Were you asleep?’ he asks incredulously, holding Aziraphale’s shoulders at arms-length as he frowns at him.

The angel in front of him wrings his hands slightly, ‘Um, well yes I was actually,’ he says breezily, like it’s no big deal.

Crowley’s frown deepens. ‘Since when do you sleep?!’ he demands.

‘Well, since today I suppose?’ Aziraphale phrases it more like a question than an actual answer.

Crowley blinks. ‘Oh, well,’ he peers at him like there’s something vaguely wrong with him that he could puzzle out by staring at him hard enough. ‘That’s okay then.’ He nods slightly, ‘Sorry for disturbing you.’

Aziraphale waves a hand, trying to brush away the conversation. ‘Oh, that’s alright, Crowley. Do you want to get lunch?’

Crowley grins, ‘Alright then,’ he agrees, and wanders towards the doors. Aziraphale hurries behind him, straightening his waistcoat, and trying to flatten his hair into some semblance of normality. It doesn’t stop Crowley occasionally sending him questioning looks every so often while he eats his angel cake.

***

What surprises him more than anything are the mental changes that occur as well as the physical. You see, since the agreement was made between him and Crowley, they’ve each done both temptations and miracles in the places they’ve visited. It saves on transport costs for one thing, and means they can both have time off, which is quite nice.

However, Aziraphale has always had problems with the temptation part of the agreement. He’s an _angel _he doesn’t tempt people. He isn’t supposed to tempt people. And so he spends an awful lot of his time eyeing up a person to tempt, shuffling his feet a lot, wringing his hands, and debating through a healthy amount of doubt as to whether this is entirely acceptable.

Which is why it is so surprising when he wanders along the footpaths of the Yorkshire Dales and innocently tempts every single person he passes to throw their litter on the ground. He doesn’t even _realise _he’s doing it, until he passes someone and then glances over his shoulder in time to watch a crisp packet be tossed carelessly into a nearby stream.

He freezes in his tracks, breathing instinctively picking up as a surge of adrenaline courses through his system. He did that? He’s been tempting people without a second thought? Panic starts bubbling in his stomach, and his palms get sweaty as he gazes wide-eyed back down the path he had come from.

Fear stirs inside him, as he realises that he’s been ignoring everything. He’s been pretending everything is fine, when it clearly isn’t. Angels should have pristine wings, and they shouldn’t need to sleep, and they shouldn’t be able to tempt people without thought, and they shouldn’t be friends with a demon, and they shouldn’t have tried to stop the apocalypse, and they certainly shouldn’t have succeeded. Aziraphale’s legs feel weak, and he starts shivering even in the autumn sunshine. He glances up to the sky with wide eyes, as though he could see the other angels watching what he had become.

He pulls his jacket tighter around himself, a layer of protection between his heart and the merciless world. He breathes the clean air, looks at the green plants of this planet he loves more than anything. He doesn’t know what to do, and a tiny part of his mind points out that there may be nothing he can do. That it may be too late. Too late for him.

A shudder runs through him, and he tips up his chin, trying to ignore the fear and appear as confident as he can. He heads back the way he can, and picks up every bit of litter he sees, and surreptitiously does as many miracles as he thinks he can get away with. Maybe if the scales are teetering on the brink, he can tip them back towards his favour.

***

He should have known it wouldn’t stay slow. He should have known it would happen quickly eventually. He should have known it was too late. He should have known he couldn’t escape his fate. He was lost. He was different. He couldn’t escape, and in some ways he realises later he wouldn’t have wanted to.

Crowley is in his bed. They’re curled up under the blankets against the incoming chill of winter. It’s become a habit of theirs since Crowley found out that Aziraphale could sleep, and yet this time feels different. It feels final.

They’re looking at each over the pillows, wide blue eyes getting lost in slitted pupils. He wants to tell Crowley that he’s scared. He wants to tell him that he thinks he’s falling. But he doesn’t want to scare Crowley, and more than anything, he doesn’t want to make Crowley hate him.

Instead, he extends a hand under the blankets and finds Crowley’s own, wrapping it in his fingers, and slowly stroking his wrist. Crowley blinks at him, and there’s something in his gaze that Aziraphale can’t read. It looks wary or unsure, but Crowley rarely displays either one of those emotions. Aziraphale offers him a small smile, and Crowley returns it with a lazy grin.

Aziraphale is suddenly very aware of their proximity, and is doubly aware that this is _wrong_. But instead of moving back, away from this being who he had come to trust implicitly over six thousand years, he shifts closer into Crowley’s arms. They wrap around his shoulders and hold him tight, and Aziraphale wonders idly if this would be enough protection to stop the inevitable.

He listens to Crowley’s heartbeat, absorbs the movement of his chest as he breathes. He wants to remember this feeling forever, and wonders how this could be bad, when it feels so right. He tilts his head up, looking up at his best friend in the entire universe, and Crowley draws back slightly to meet his gaze. Aziraphale stares at him for a few seconds, and then decides to take a leap of faith. He leans forwards, and presses his lips to Crowley’s, calm and quiet and quick. He pulls back and sees Crowley’s eyes are wide in surprise, before he leans forward too, and meets Aziraphale’s lips again. It feels like flying.

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Pain.

Pain.

_Pain._

That’s the only thing Aziraphale is aware of. It cuts through him, intensifying with every pound of his heart. He can feel his breath ripping through his chest, but it feels like razor blades tearing through his throat.

It’s too hot. Burning agony runs along his wings into his shoulder blades. He’s sure if he could prise his eyes open, he would see flames licking up around the feathers, charring the white to black.

Distantly, he thinks he’s screaming.

And then there’s the feeling like the world has dropped out from under him. He’s falling. Plummeting towards nothing. Towards oblivion. Towards _hell_. And fear erupts in his chest as he realises he doesn’t want to go to hell. He can’t go there. He’ll be ripped apart there. He can’t fight so many demons. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

He doesn’t think he’s getting enough oxygen. His head is splitting open in agony, stomach rolling from the loss of balance and awareness. He can’t choke in a breath. He’s lost. He’s _terrified._

Then, at the distant part of his awareness he notices something different. It’s coolness against his burning skin. It’s solidity in this endless oblivion. He can’t quite determine what it is, but he instinctively struggles towards it, clings to it as a lifeline in the darkness. It feels like arms wrapped around him, hugging him tight, catching him as he falls. It feels like being rocked against a solid chest. It feels like comfort and stability. He focuses on it, tries to turn his mind away from the pain and focus on the calm.

As time continues, sluggishly ticking away in a way he can’t follow, he becomes more aware of his surroundings. Suddenly he’s not crashing and falling onto hard ground, there’s soft blankets and cushions under him. The pain starts to dwindle, and the loss of it makes his breath catch in relief. And then he becomes aware of the voice muttering in his ear, trying to sound calm and ineffectively hiding the panic bleeding into it.

‘Come on, Aziraphale,’ it says, the arms gripping him tighter, ‘Breathe.’ He instinctively takes a breath in response to the voice.

‘Dammit angel, you never do things halfway, do you?’ Aziraphale wants to smile at the voice, wants to see where it’s coming from. Wants to say thank you for being there as he falls apart.

‘You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.’ The voice mumbles into his hair, and Aziraphale wonders, _is he?_

With great effort he manages to drag a limp hand up to brush the ones clenched around his torso.

‘Aziraphale?’ the voice questions.

‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale responds, and then he passes out.

***

When Aziraphale wakes up, he finds his whole body aching like he’d been run over by a stampede of horses, used as a punching bag, and then sat on by an elephant. Stretching out his limbs does absolutely nothing to alleviate the sensation, but it does give him the opportunity to check that every one is still present and in the right place, and ample time to note that there is no warm body behind him and that he’s alone on the bed.

He drags open his heavy eyelids and blinks at the ceiling, clearing his blurry vision. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, and instantly sways as a rush of dizziness hits him. He wonders how long he’s been asleep. He squints towards the closed curtains and notes the sun rays piercing their edges with weak wintery light that hint at it being the afternoon. Slowly and gingerly, he pushes himself to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs round to lay his feet on the wooden floor. It feels good to have something solid below him.

There’s a piece of paper lying on the bedside table, and Aziraphale tugs it towards him to read the handwriting printed on it – _Aziraphale, gone to get groceries. DO NOT GET UP under any circumstances. _Aziraphale stares at the note for a few long moments, before folding it up and tucking it back under a book on the nightstand. He runs his fingers over the soft blanket under him, takes a deep breath, and then carefully starts to take stock of himself.

He doesn’t _feel _very different. He feels woozy, and stiff, and shaky, but if he searches a bit harder he can find a chasm inside himself. Something empty, and dark, and cold, that used to be filled with light. Despair suddenly adds additional weight to his aching body. He leans forwards, cradling his head in his hands, and keens in sadness to the empty room. He doesn’t know how long he stays in that position – long enough for tears to start slipping through his fingers. Long enough for his heart to ache, and his breath to catch over and over again on sobs.

He doesn’t raise his head until he hears the door start to unlock downstairs, and he whips his head up, looking towards the stairs. With a feeling of utter hopelessness, he waves his hand vaguely, and locks Crowley out of his shop for good.

***

Time passes in a weird way that he can’t seem to keep track of. He drifts. In and out of different rooms. In and out of sleep. The light changes beyond the window, marking the passage of time, and yet Aziraphale pays it no attention. His limbs feel heavy with futility. He can scarcely pull himself to the kitchen to eat and drink. Can’t read any books without feeling bleak and useless. He _failed_. He wasn’t good enough to be what he was. He rebelled, and now look at where he is. Wasting away in an empty old bookshop.

There are days when he can’t even look at himself in the mirror. Can’t face looking at those eyes that once held so much life, that now look empty and desperate. The first time he had seen his new black wings he had thrown up in horror, curled up in his little bathroom that was never used, shivering and quaking on the floor. It had taken him hours to get back to the bed. Sometimes he feels unclean, dirty, and he’ll stand in the shower for ages, trying to let the hot water burn out the blackness that resides inside him. Sometime his skin feels too tight, and it itches so much that he wishes he could scratch it off and tear it away with just his fingernails. Sometimes he wonders if he should look for a more permanent solution. Holy water would probably do the trick at this point.

There are other days when he is more angry than he can ever remember being. He crashes around his shop in a rage, throwing things around and smashing as many things as possible. Why should he be punished for trying to stop a war? Why should he fall because he decided to love something with all his heart? He had been as good as he could for over six thousand years. He wasn’t perfect, he knew that, but he put his heart and love into things, and isn’t that what an angel is meant to do? To love everything unconditionally. He’s angry at Heaven, he’s angry at God. He’s angry at Crowley. He’s more angry at himself. Once the anger has died away, guilt takes its place. He picks up everything from the ground, miracles things back together, tidies up so it doesn’t look like a hurricane had blown through the bookshop. Then he goes back to bed.

There are some days when he doesn’t feel anything. When there’s just emptiness and despair. Those days are the ones where he wonders if he could just disappear.

And finally, there are days – well, really it’s every day – when he ignores the pounding on his door and the shouting voice from down in the street saying, ‘Open up, angel!’, ‘Come on, Aziraphale!’ or just mindlessly rambling about anything and everything as Crowley sits on his steps refusing to leave. Refusing to give up. Aziraphale manages to ignore him for the most part, but there’s a part of him that wants to see him, wants to let him in, wants to talk to him, wants to hold him. There’s a part of him that thinks Crowley could take this pain and emptiness away, like he did when he was falling. There’s a part of him that’s angry at him for leaving him that first day, to get _groceries_ of all things, but that part quickly switches to self-loathing and points out that Crowley probably hates him now, and doesn’t want to be near him. There’s another part of him that’s jealous of him, secure in his demon skin with his black wings, falling because he deliberately did things wrong. There’s a quieter part of him that points out that that isn’t true though is it? Crowley doesn’t talk about falling, and yet Aziraphale thinks it wasn’t a choice, and it could well be something he wishes had never happened.

Even so he keeps the doors locked tight against Crowley’s most determined efforts. They’ve known each other for six thousand years, of course he knows how to evade him at this point. No one needs to know that sometimes he sits on the opposite side of the door, and listens to Crowley talk for hours on end.

***

It’s inevitable really that Crowley still manages to get to him. With six thousand years of meetings and then friendship and then maybe love, it was inevitable that Aziraphale couldn’t avoid him forever. Maybe Crowley is just naturally more imaginative than Aziraphale and figures out a way to get around the locked doors that Aziraphale didn’t think of. Maybe Aziraphale just underestimated his determination and desperation.

Either way, he wanders down the stairs one morning to find Crowley stood in the middle of his bookshop, sunglasses firmly covering his eyes. Aziraphale instantly starts to take a step back, and then stops, taking in the man in front of him. Crowley is pale, and shaking, and his suit isn’t quite as perfect as it should be. He looks desperate, and panicked, but as they stand there, his shoulders slump forwards and he takes a breath that sounds like it’s the first one he’s taken in a long time.

‘Oh, thank goodness, Aziraphale.’ He murmurs, and he says his name like a prayer, like it’s precious. Crowley hesitantly takes a step towards him, and then another when Aziraphale doesn’t move. He thinks he had forgotten exactly what Crowley looked like. Forgotten the long fingers, and the thin waist, and the strong jaw. He can’t believe he forgot this. Something inside him fights for him to move closer. Something else implores him to move away. He’s damaged, and broken, and Crowley shouldn’t get to see him like this.

Crowley stops when another step forwards results in Aziraphale flinching back. He raises his hands slightly, placatingly.

‘I was so worried, angel.’ He stammers out, ‘I thought… I thought –‘ he breaks off the sentence, shaking his head as though the words are too horrible to think let alone say.

Aziraphale’s voice is raw and croaky, having not been used in so long, ‘You thought what?’

Crowley swallows convulsively, ‘I thought you might have left me.’ Aziraphale isn’t sure that’s what he wanted to say first, but he takes it anyway. Something like guilt curls inside him.

‘I’m here.’ He answers, simply.

Crowley gives a quick nod, biting his lip. ‘You wouldn’t let me in.’ He gestures to the door as a form of explanation. ‘I wanted to help.’

Aziraphale feels like all the air is leaving the room, and also like the few feet of distance between them is actually miles. It’s never been like this between them, even in the Garden of Eden. This is stilted, and unsure, and _scared_. Aziraphale _hates _it.

‘I didn’t want you to see me.’ Aziraphale reveals, quietly.

Crowley nods again, and Aziraphale wishes he could see his eyes. ‘Why?’ Crowley asks.

It’s such an innocent question. Just one word and yet it cuts Aziraphale to his core. The words he wants to say clump up inside him, each one more hateful than the last.

‘I –‘ He gets out, and then stops. _I what?_ He wonders. Why had he not wanted Crowley to see him? Crowley who had been there for everything. Crowley who had stood side by side with him at the end of the world. Crowley who had held him through the worst thing he had ever experienced. Was he ashamed of falling? Was he ashamed of the way he has reacted to it? Was he terrified that Crowley would treat him differently? Was he scared that Crowley wouldn’t love him anymore? Something inside him says he knows the answer to all of those questions.

‘I fell.’ He says instead, voice barely above a whisper, as though saying it out loud would make it real, as though the last few weeks had been a dream and maybe he could still wake up and none of this would have happened.

Crowley takes another step towards him, and he reaches up and takes his glasses off. His amber eyes are wide, and sad, and so _understanding _that Aziraphale wants to look away.

‘I know.’ Crowley says, quietly. He pauses, takes a breath, and then says, ‘I’m sorry, Aziraphale.’

And that’s all it takes. The breath catches in Aziraphale’s lungs, and he stumbles forwards into the arms Crowley holds out for him. He clutches onto the front of Crowley’s jacket, buries his head into his warm chest, and cries.

Crowley rubs a hand up and down his back as he sobs, and he murmurs comforting things into his ear.

It’s when he says, ‘It’s okay, angel.’ That the anger sparks in Aziraphale’s chest. He pushes Crowley away from him, glares at him despite his vision being blurred with tears, and explodes out, ‘Don’t call me angel! Not anymore!’ And then he sobs again, clutching his chest as his heart twinges with the realisation.

Crowley is looking at him with sadness, and maybe pity, but Aziraphale is shocked to see adoration in his gaze too. His hands are held up in surrender from where Aziraphale tore out of them, and he gives him a small smile as he says, ‘Oh Aziraphale. You’ll always be an angel to me. _My_ angel.’

Aziraphale stares at him for a few moments, something warm and alive uncurling in his chest. And then he’s rushing back at Crowley, putting his hands on his cheeks, and tugging his head down into a bruising kiss. It’s messy, and wet, and rushed, but it’s also perfect as Crowley wraps one arm around his waist, and brushes his cheek with his other hand. Aziraphale wants to stay with him like this forever. And maybe he can.

Crowley breaks the kiss, and pushes their foreheads together, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

‘I don’t care that you’ve fallen, Aziraphale.’ He whispers into the small space where their panting breaths are mingling, ‘I’ll always love you. No matter what.’

Aziraphale knows he means it, knows that this is Crowley in front of him baring his heart and soul to him. It feels like coming home. It feels like he’s been missing something for weeks, and he’s just found it. It feels _right. _

‘I love you too.’ He whispers back, the secret curling out between them, and Crowley grins widely at him.

‘We can get through this together.’ He tells the former angel, and Aziraphale realises that maybe with Crowley here with him he can survive. He can adapt, and he can _live_.

‘Don’t leave me again for groceries this time then. I know you can miracle them into existence anyway’ He mutters cheekily, lips quirking up into the first smile he’s given in weeks.

Crowley rolls his eyes and then gives his forehead a quick kiss. ‘You know perfectly well you prefer cocoa and tea that has shop-bought milk in them.’ He replies fondly.

Aziraphale stares at him in surprise, and his lips split in a wide smile, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. ‘Well miracled stuff just doesn’t taste as good,’ he huffs out.

Crowley chuckles at him, and tugs him closer, holding him tightly. Aziraphale relaxes into the hold, and realises that he feels warm and whole for the first time in a long time. It’ll take time, but he can mend. He won’t be the same as he was, but he can be very close to it. And if he has Crowley to be beside him on the journey, well he really can’t complain too much.

This, he decides, is where he belongs.


End file.
